


At first blush

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Blushing, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young artist's blushes betray her feelings for Thorin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At first blush

The room is quiet as you lay out your supplies. A small table has been drawn up to your easel, ready to receive quills, ink bottles, brushes, and paint pots as you methodically arrange them, and the blank canvas waits to capture your subject. To be asked to paint the portrait of a King is a momentous occasion indeed, and yet it was not mere artistic ambition that had made your heart flutter as you gathered your supplies, or caused you to spend much longer than usual choosing your clothing for the day. 

Though you are more conscientious than ever before in your preparations, you can’t help but steal curious glances at your surroundings on this, your first visit to the King’s private chambers. The furnishings are appropriately rich, yet comfortable, with a more homely, lived-in feel than you’d expected, but upon reflection it is befitting the man who makes his home among them.

Your eyes have wandered to the collection of swords and axes displayed on the wall, the storied blade Orcrist given a place of prominence among them, when the door from the outside corridor opens and Thorin Oakenshield enters the sitting room. He greets you warmly, inclining his head in response to the curtsy you quickly bob, and your confident smile falters slightly as you feel the familiar heat creep into your cheeks, their flushed color betraying the leap of your heart upon seeing him.

If your King has noticed your tendency to blush if he so much as glances in your direction, he has the grace to overlook it, and merely returns your smile. “Where would you like me?”

Recovering your natural color in focusing upon the task at hand, you gesture toward the cushioned chair beside the fireplace.

“Just there will do nicely, there’s plenty of light from the lanterns.”

He seats himself, looking expectantly at you while you survey him with a critical eye.

“If you could just…with your collar,” you mime straightening it before asking, “erm…may I?”

“Of course,” he says pleasantly.

Carefully, you unfold the rumpled edge of his coat’s fur collar, the pelt softer even than you’d imagined, and lay it neatly it over his shoulder. Caught up in your artistic vision of his portrait, you tuck a stray lock of his hair into place with your fingertips, running your palm over the thick, dark waves to smooth them, and it is only when his eyes seek yours at your touch that you are suddenly acutely aware of his closeness, of the silky softness of his hair beneath your hand, of how intimate your gesture would be under other circumstances. As his blue eyes seem to bore into your own, you quickly withdraw, your face flaming once again, and retreat to the easel.

“I’ll just begin with sketching, then,” you explain, “and you can tell me when you’d like to stop for today.”

“Take your time,” Thorin smiles. “It will be a pleasure to watch you work.”

Truth be told, you could draw him from memory. In fact, there are one or two small sketches of his face lurking in the margins of your personal sketchbook, well hidden from prying eyes. You begin to draw, keenly focused on the lines and angles of his face, the undulating ripples of his hair, and as you work, you are unaware that your own countenance is transformed by your passion for art, by the joy of doing what you love most.

Thorin watches you with fascination, finding you more beautiful than ever, entranced by the delight in your expression that he has never seen in the many hours you’ve spent taking notes at meetings of the council, of which you are an official scribe. His lips curve reflexively with enjoyment, unbeknownst to him until you break the silence with a gently teasing tone.

“You’re smiling. Aren’t Kings meant to look frightening in their portraits?”

His smile broadens, crinkling the corners of his eyes as your words draw a rare chuckle from his lips. “Your pleasure in your work is infectious,” he ventures. “Drawing makes you happy.”

You smile, your attention still on your canvas. “It always has.”

“And yet you spend your days in dull meetings, listening to me talk,” he observes wryly.

“Well, sometimes I sketch a bit, when my mind wanders,” you confess with a sheepish grin, finally meeting his gaze. “Anyway,” you continue, returning to roughing out the embroidery of his coat, “Ori was very kind to recommend me for your portrait. He encourages me a great deal.”

“He speaks very highly of your talent,” Thorin assures you.

“I hope I can live up to his praise.”

You have nearly finished the basic drawing when Balin appears to call Thorin to a supper meeting with ambassadors from Esgaroth. It somehow seems to you that there is reluctance in Thorin’s step as he shows you to the door, with a promise to meet again the next day to continue your work.

In the following morning’s council meeting, the representative of the Master of Esgaroth begins to drone on about trade agreements, lacing his speech with many flatteries and courtly turns of phrase. When your glance wanders to meet Thorin’s, his eyes flicker to your parchment, its border newly decorated with a delicate flowering vine, with a quirk of his eyebrow before the smallest of smiles crosses his lips and you duck your head to hide your own amusement as your face warms with a flush.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, you spend many of your afternoons with Thorin in his chambers, conversation flowing ever more easily between you as your brushes and pigments painstakingly bring his likeness to life, and one day, you paint your last stroke. With a final, loving flourish of blue that captures his piercing eyes, the portrait is complete, and at last you show him the fruit of your efforts. He looks at it silently for what seems like an eternity, and you have begun to fear that he is displeased when he finally turns to you with an almost shy humility in his expression.

“I do not know how to thank you,” he says quietly, adding, with a smile, “I fear that anyone who looks upon this portrait will only be disappointed to see me in the flesh.”

“I have only painted what I see,” you promise him, withholding the praises of his beauty that crowd into your mind.

“Again, you have my gratitude,” he answers, holding your gaze until you feel compelled to look away.

“Well…I suppose I should be going,” you say, hoisting your case of art supplies and glancing toward the door.

“Yes, of course,” Thorin says hesitantly. “I would not keep you.”

He walks with you to the door, turning to you one more time before you take your leave. Wordlessly, he takes your hand in his and quickly presses it to his lips before releasing you, your cheeks pinking as your eyes meet his. 

_Like the summer roses in Ered Luin,_ he thinks.

“Goodbye,” you murmur, a smile tugging at your lips as you walk out into the corridor with a giddy lightness of heart, looking back to see that Thorin still stands in the doorway, watching you go.

* * *

A week after finishing the portrait, you sit on one of Erebor’s many secluded terraces, enjoying a view over the city of Dale and painting a still life from a basket of wildflowers gathered on your morning walk outside the Front Gate and into the valley. So engrossed are you in putting the finishing touches on a cluster of star-shaped white blooms that you scarcely notice the footsteps that quietly approach, but when you finally turn, Thorin stands smiling behind you, looking over your shoulder at the canvas.

“Beautiful,” he gestures toward your work in progress.

“Thank you,” you smile, flushing with pleasure. “It’s just something for my own enjoyment.”

“They’re very lifelike,” he says, studying the canvas, “you have quite a gift.”

“Have you ever tried to draw?” you ask curiously, and he chuckles, with a shake of his head.

“I’m afraid these hands can better wield a sword than a paintbrush,” he answers, holding up his powerful hands as though offering proof.

With a twinkle in your eye, you dip a brush into bright yellow paint and hold it out for him. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

His instinctive laugh fades when he realizes you’re not joking. “I couldn’t,” he protests. “I would only ruin your lovely work.”

“You won’t,” you assure him, in a coaxing tone, “I can always paint over it.”

He remains hesitant, but when you extend the brush closer to him, nodding your encouragement, he gingerly takes it between his sturdy fingers.

“Now,” you instruct him gently, indicating the vibrant yellow bloom in your basket, “just paint what you see.”

Thorin steps closer to the canvas, sizing up the flower before making a tentative stroke with the brush, the tip of his tongue tucked between his lips in concentration. He cocks his head, attempting to describe the curve of the petals, frowning with adorable concern as a lopsided, ragged flower emerges. When he steps back to evaluate his effort, his smile is sheepish. “I fear your faith in my abilities has been misplaced,” he says ruefully, but you shake your head.

“Just wait,” you smile.

Taking up another brush, you daub it in a rich green paint and begin to swirl it confidently over the canvas. Around Thorin’s flower, leaves grow and curling tendrils wind, smoothing the petals’ uneven edges, creating a lush bouquet. You move on to mix a slightly darker shade of yellow, and the blossom’s buttery center comes to life. When you have finished, the yellow wildflower in the painting looks as though it has just been plucked from among the waving grasses by the riverbank, and you smile triumphantly at Thorin, who grins in return.

“We work well together,” he says approvingly.

“So we do,” you agree, feeling the heat of the blush that stains your face, and you turn away from him to look over the valley, letting your hair veil your pink cheeks, but a gentle hand cups your chin and Thorin draws your gaze to meet his.

His blue eyes look fondly into yours as he murmurs your name. “Do not hide your pretty blushes, for in truth, I have always loved them. It was your rosy cheeks that first let me dare to hope that you might feel as I do.”

It suddenly seems difficult to catch your breath, but you manage to wonder, “and how do you feel?”

A smile curves his lips as his fingers glide lightly down your arm to entwine themselves with yours. “As though you were the most precious jewel in Erebor,” he says earnestly. “I can scarcely think of anything else…in truth, I have never valued your skill as a scribe more, for I rely upon your notes to tell me what I have missed whilst captivated by the beauty of your face rather than the words of my advisors.”

You cannot help but laugh at this, and he joins you. “It is difficult to take notes,” you confess teasingly, “when I am watching you, listening to your voice, imagining you speaking words of love instead of negotiating trade with our neighbors.”

His smile is radiant, and he takes your hand in both of his to raise it to his lips. “You need imagine no more, amrâlimê, but hear the words of love that are for you alone.“

“My King,” you sigh in delight, but he shakes his head as his hand moves to caress your face, his fingertips grazing the swell of your lips.

“My name,” he purrs, “let me hear it from your sweet lips.”

“Thorin,” you murmur, a smile playing about your mouth, and he beams.

“Again…please.”

“Thorin,” this time more confidently, lovingly, your own hand straying to rest over his heart.

“For as long as I live,” he says softly, the tip of his nose brushing your own.

“Thorin,” you whisper as his mouth captures yours, his arms envelop you, and you know nothing but the softness of his lips and the warm strength of his body until you are forced to part from each other, breathless and thrilling with happiness. Your hands cradle his face, stroke his soft beard, and he presses a kiss to your forehead as he holds you close.

“I do love you,” you vow, laying your cheek against the soft fur of his coat, toying with a lock of his hair between your fingertips.

Thorin leans back to look into your face, smiling, softly kissing your lips one more time. “And I love you, my sweet. You have stolen my heart, and shall always have it.”

Even after kisses and confessions, you feel your cheeks color vibrantly at his words, and giggle as you bury your face in his neck, and his laugh is a deep rumble that vibrates in his chest. He tenderly cups your cheek with his hand, his thumb tracing its flushed curve.

“One hundred years from now, I hope to still make you blush.”


End file.
